My Home's in the Valley—my heart's in my home—
I care not for titles—nor proud banner'd dome—
The worshipping glances that beam to deceive—
The galas and dances for ever I leave!
One glance of the stream, by the home of my birth,
One song of the wild birds—the sweetest on earth—
Outrival the splendours that lured me to roam,—
Oh, my Home's in the Valley—my heart's in my home!

My home's in the valley—my heart's with the flowers
That bloom'd by my lattice in earlier hours;
The proud ones may joy in their riches and state—

By another light surrounded
Than our actual sky;
With the purple ocean bounded
Does the island lie,
Like a dream of the old world.
Bare the rugged heights ascending,
Bring to mind the past,
When the weary voyage ending,
Was the anchor cast.
And the stranger sails were furled
Beside the glorious island
Where Ulysses was the king.

Still does fancy see the palace,
With its carved gates;
Where the suitors drained the chalice,
Mocking at the Fates.
Stern, and dark, and veiled are they.
Still their silent thread entwining

While the lads of the village shall merrily ah,
Sound their tabors, I'll hand thee along,
And I say unto thee, that merrily ah,
Thou and I will be first in the throng.

Just then, when the youth who last year won the dow'r,
And his mate shall the sports have begun,
When the gay voice of gladness resounds from each bow'r,
And thou long'st in thy heart to make one,
While the lads, &c.

Those joys that are harmless what mortal can blame?
'Tis my maxim that youth should be free;
And to prove that my words and my deeds are the same,

To an old soare a long cure must goe on;
Great faults require great satisfaction.

This Day, whate'er the Fates decree;
Shall still be kept with Joy by me:
This Day then, let us not be told,
That you are sick, and I grown old,
Nor think on our approaching Ills,
And talk of Spectacles and Pills;
Tomorrow will be Time enough
To hear such mortifying Stuff.
Yet, since from Reason may be brought
A better and more pleasing Thought,
Which can in spite of all Decays,
Support a few remaining Days:

From not the gravest of Divines,
Accept for once some serious Lines.

Although we now can form no more

If Someone, Something, somehow (as Man dreams)—
Some architectonic spirit-strength omniscient,—
Has wrought the clouded stars and all that seems
World, Universe, and Life (poor, blind, deficient)—
If this be thus, and Music thrills the spheres,
And I go thither when my feet have trod
Past Death,—what chords might ecstasize my ears!
What oratorios of Almighty God!

Yet, seeing that all goes not too well on earth
In this harmonic venture known as Time,
I'm not too optimistic of the worth
Of problematic symphonies sublime:

My man fell in, when he was drunk;
They'd thrown him out o' the “King's Head.”
From Wapping stairs he fell, and sunk.
He was my man; he's dead.

On the cold slab, a sight to see,
They've laid him out—poor handsome chap—
In Rotherhithe's new mortuary.
His head should dent my lap.

But I mayn't warm him where he lies,
Because I have no ring to show—
Yet I've his bruises on my eyes;
And bore his child a month ago.

The Snowdrop is the prophet of the flowers;
It lives and dies upon its bed of snows;
And like a thought of spring it comes and goes,
Hanging its head beside our leafless bowers.
The sun's betrothing kiss it never knows,
Nor all the glowing joy of golden showers;
But ever in a placid, pure repose,
More like a spirit with its look serene,
Droops its pale cheek veined thro' with infant green.

Queen of her sisters is the sweet Wild Rose,
Sprung from the earnest sun and ripe young June;
The year's own darling and the Summer's Queen!

I was afraid the parson
Would go to law
About that $490 I owed him.
But I bilked him.
I offered to pay it in seventy instalments
Of seven dollars each,
And he didn't dare
Take the money.

While my young cheek retains its healthful hues,
And I have many friends who hold me dear,
Linley! methinks, I would not often hear
Such melodies as thine, lest I should lose
All memory of the wrongs and sore distress
For which my miserable brethren weep!
But should uncomforted misfortunes steep
My daily bread in tears and bitterness;
And if at Death's dread moment I should lie
With no belovéd face at my bed-side,
To fix the last glance of my closing eye,
Methinks such strains, breathed by my angel-guide,
Would make me pass the cup of anguish by,